


Wasteland, Baby

by VivificanousPrime



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Found Family, Genocide, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, bombing aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26635438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivificanousPrime/pseuds/VivificanousPrime
Summary: After the bombing of Praxus, Prowl and Jazz join a volunteer search party to find survivors. Past decisions and unresolved emotions resurface for Prowl as he realizes the home he had left is now indefinitely gone. This only worsens after he finds someone still alive in the rubble.
Relationships: Jazz & Prowl & Bluestreak, Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	Wasteland, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This story is rated Mature due to the exploration into difficult to process emotions, such as survivor's guilt. If any of the themes in the tags are troubling to you, then perhaps try another fic. 
> 
> Title and mood inspired by Hozier's "Wasteland, Baby".

As the smoke continued to clear, more became visible. Prowl stood still to watch the clouds glide along buildings and city streets as though they were fictitious imaginings in his mind. That made more sense to him than the actual truth, so he quieted himself and envisioned his surroundings were nothing more than a bad dream.

After a moment of this, it became apparent such thoughts couldn’t overcome basic facts. Those once massive, imposing structures were crumbled remains now, and there was no amount of denial that could erase the tangible.

Prowl in-vented slowly, letting the remnants of the blaze infiltrate his vents. If he fantasized enough, he could feel his people’s fear lingering in the air, inhale their dread as their world had burned. But try as he might, he couldn’t feel anything for any of it. There was no anger to burn his core nor fear to freeze his spark. He just looked on at the collapsed home in a numb state.

He had known the family who lived there. They were of a lower ranking than his and in a neighboring district, but Prowl had met the heads of the household and each of their creations. He couldn’t quite picture them after all these vorns, but their names and occupations and status were clear in his memories.

That was all that remained of them now. Nothing but incomplete impressions in other people’s minds and an expensive estate that had burned to the ground the same as all others had.

The smoke held in his vents became suffocating, so he released it with a hard ex-vent. For no good reason, he could recall a banquet in that home, one he had attended as a youngling. Prowl could still feel the pressure he had been under at the time to not scratch at his paint or speak out of turn. The music had been soft but weighted like the grip his carrier had on his hand.

Prowl squeezed the fist he had formed as tight as he could, begging for the feeling of his creator’s warm touch to return. But it faded despite his chasing, breaking him from the daydream.

All those fights. Every argument. Each and every disagreement over the pettiest of things. They were all just taking up space in his memories that should have been filled with more meaningful details. Like the way his carrier had smiled or how his sire had recited poetry. Like the shapes of cool light their crystal gardens had made with the sunlight.

Whatever flame he had kept alive by his anger towards them and this place, it was as gone as they all were.

Something Jazz said to him came to mind. It was on their way here, an impromptu decision to volunteer spurred by the sudden news of the bombing, that Jazz had held him against his side and spoken to him so calmly with words of certainty and gravity. It was okay to be sad.

He didn’t want to believe it was sadness he felt. No, this was just a numbness. A shock to his mind and spark that he had not yet processed. There had been no warning. Nothing to prepare anyone of what was to come. It was as simple as Praxus existing for one moment and being gone the next. Besides, Praxus hadn’t been his home for a long time. He had no rights to this place and to this mourning.

But perhaps, if he stared longer at the wreckage, he might come to some understanding of this unpleasant ache in his chest.

A change in the air behind him caused his wings to raise in alarm. When a familiar hand placed itself on his shoulder, though, Prowl relaxed and let himself absorb the comfort offered to him.

“If you want to head back, you can.”

Prowl shook his helm, adamant to see this through. “I’m fine, Jazz.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened and rubbed a small circle on the plating. “You want encouragement or for me to leave you be?”

Turning to face him, Prowl let his face break into whatever emotion it wanted to show. The give in his resolve took more from him than intended, and his doorwings began to tremor. “Encourage me,” he answered softly.

Jazz moved them so they were fully facing each other, cupping Prowl’s face in his free hand to force their eyes to meet. “You are far stronger than any of this,” he said, deepening his baritone voice so he sounded smooth and impetrating. “I know because no matter how much life has torn you apart, you haven’t broken yet. Shed your tears, Prowler, they’re only proof of strength.”

Something rose in him, forcing the moisture behind his eyes to surface. Prowl couldn’t begin to name it, but he knew it was neither sorrow nor confidence. “I am not in a state of grief at present.”

Jazz just shrugged. “That ain’t the only reason to cry. This is intense. Whatever you feeling, you’re going to let it out somehow or another.”

Prowl nodded like he understood, getting himself under control. “Thank you.”

“Always.” Jazz let the hand holding his face drop as he looked around them, pausing at the home Prowl had be transfixed on. The others in the search party had caught up to them and were beginning their manual digging into the building’s remains, the drones flying overhead to scan for life. “You knew them?” Jazz guessed.

“I did,” he admitted, refocusing on the melted, jagged metal that had once been the frame of the estate. “I hadn’t seen any of the family for vorns, though.”

Jazz squeezed him again, this time shaking him slightly. The unnecessary “I’m sorry” was well understood, and Prowl was grateful his lover refrained from giving voice to his pity. Instead, he inclined his head to the others, commenting, “They may need us.”

Prowl glanced at the people sifting through the remains’ foundation, fighting the urge to ignore the task he had come here to do. “I suppose so.”

“Keep a look out for us. We could use someone watching things from over here and make sure nothing falls on us,” Jazz offered, small tells in his tone betraying the lie.

It was a tempting offer to stay right where he was, consumed by his thoughts, especially after the joors they had already spent searching. To continue his self-pitying and exploration into emotions that hardly mattered more than finding survivors. “No,” he said, as much to himself as to Jazz, “I came here to help. I will continue to do so.”

Not trusting his certainty to last, Prowl took a step forward. And another, and another, until he was on a straight path to the wreckage and whatever lay beneath it, Jazz coming to stride by his side.

What was left of the building towered in front of them, the large spires adorning the exterior melted into a fence of jagged spears. The crystals once intricately woven into the exterior of the home were shattered, their pieces scattered about the surrounding ground. Anyone without a knowledge of the architecture might look upon the shards as nothing more than a loss of art, but Prowl’s very spark shook at the sight.

Whatever his status within his own home, he had never once questioned the spiritual or the significance of the historical. Generations upon generations of family had cultivated these gateways to Primus, but now the life embedded within them was strewn unceremoniously on the ground, stepped on and disregarded by those who did not understand them.

His attention was jerked away from the fractures to the group of volunteers when one of the them suddenly reeled like he had been blown off balance. The mech quickly regained himself, shouting out to anyone within audio range, “There’s someone here!”

Prowl was running before he had even processed what was said. He homed in on the now flustered mech gesturing wildly to a gap in the collapsed metal walls for people to help him lift it. Jazz was far faster, shooting past him to reach the gap as soon as possible. He came to a sliding stop in front of the space the volunteer had indicated. By the time Prowl had reached him, Jazz was already reaching into the crevasse, widened just enough by four other mechs for a person to squeeze through.

A pair of bright blue orbs was the first Prowl registered of the Praxian. In the dark, they shone in such a high contrast that it was all Prowl could see of him for a long moment. Then his chevron came into view, a brilliant red similar to his own. A slight change in the light behind the other mech caught Prowl’s attention as the other’s wings flicked in distress. That was when the mech’s fear finally registered, his overly bright eyes and nervous trembling exceedingly pronounced. Prowl matched the beats of the other Praxian’s doorwings with his own, hoping the syncing would calm him down.

The rest of the dark space should have felt irrelevant, but a stress in Jazz’s EM field signaled to him he needed to look around. Prowl spotted it almost immediately. Just off to the trapped Praxian’s right was an outstretched arm, its hand intertwined with the mech’s. But that was all that was visible. At just past the elbow joint was a thick metal wall pressed flush against the floor of the space, the distinct blue of dried energon staining the surface like a frozen cascade down to puddles on the floor.

Scale finally came into play as Prowl took note of the dead mech’s arm compared to the Praxian still shaking in the dark. The alive mech’s was significantly smaller and shorter, his softer plating covered in dents and scrapes and open gashes.

“Primus,” Prowl exclaimed quietly, realization shocking him to uselessness.

“I see him,” Jazz called out to the others. He extended a hand into the crevasse, palm open to the youngling. “Hey,” he said softly in his deep, sweet voice. “I’m Jazz, what’s your name?”

The mechling just continued to stare at him blankly, his shaking only escalating.

“You got no clue what I said, do you?” Jazz laughed, smiling as though nothing was abnormal. Switching to his best Praxis, a broken speech only made stranger by his thick accent, Jazz tried again. “Hi, my name is Jazz. Who are you?”

The mechling didn’t dare speak, only blinking in response.

“Help you,” Jazz said, lifting his extended hand for emphasis. “You can leave here.”

When the youngling’s wings hiked up higher as he shuffled backward, Prowl shook himself to awareness.

“I am Prowl,” he introduced, making sure his proper accent was well heard through his words, hoping to create a sense of familiarity in the youngling. “I’m from District Nine, my sire being Dreadnaught, a member of the local senate.” The mechling hesitated for a moment before nodding.

“You’ll translate for me?” Jazz asked, his gaze not leaving the frightened child.

“Direct me.”

Smiling a little brighter, Jazz spoke directly to the youngling, switching back to standard. “It’s going to be ok,” he assured, waiting for Prowl to relay the statement before continuing. “Will you let me help you?”

After Prowl finished translating, the mechling glanced uncertainly between them, his sight lingering on Jazz, no doubt taking in all his foreign features and manner of speech.

“You’re a little stuck here,” Jazz continued. “Let’s get you out, yeah?”

The mechling continued to stare at them, but Prowl did notice the tempo in his wing-flapping change to align with his own, longer beats.

“I won’t lie, it’s scary up here,” Jazz admitted, subtly stretching his hand closer. “But I won’t let none of that get to you.”

As Prowl’s translation finished, the youngling shifted forward ever so slightly, just barely out of Jazz’s reach. When he glanced to the hand he still held, Jazz let his smile morph into a mournful frown.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know that I can help them. But I can get you to safety.”

The mechling made a hurt noise, squeezing the hand harder. He seemed to debate with himself for a moment before he looked back up at them, then motioned to Jazz’s face, his wings lifting nervously again.

“Yeah, I got eyes, too,” Jazz said, pulling his field close to himself as dread sank in. Addressing Prowl, he explained, “I’m going to take my visor off for him.”

Prowl nodded, shifting to keep his gaze turned. To the other mechs surrounding them, he ordered, “Turn around or otherwise shield your vision.” Most readily closed their eyes or focused on a piece of rubble, but two mechs looked between themselves as though they believed the demand ridiculous before relenting. Prowl didn’t give them much thought, caring far more that they complied than agreed.

Eyes downcast, Prowl listened carefully as Jazz clicked his visor out of its place, accepting the screen when it was placed in his hand.

“See?” Jazz exclaimed. “Look at that! We got the same color, too!”

After Prowl relayed the message, he could hear the mechling shuffle again, the sound growing closer.

“It’s going to be okay,” Jazz assured, softening his voice as much as he could. “I’m going to make sure you’re okay.”

Before Prowl finished speaking, the mechling was tripping slowly to the entrance of the crevasse. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the mechling grab a hold of Jazz’s hand, letting go of the other in the exchange. As soon as he was able, Jazz pulled him through the opening and into light.

The mechling was immediately placed in Prowl’s lap as Jazz traded the child for his visor. He hesitated against Prowl’s plating for a brief moment before sinking into his warmth, staring up at the older Praxian with a mix of wonder and anxiety.

“I have you,” Prowl assured, curling his legs under the youngling to keep him off the charred ground.

“I’m good,” Jazz announced, clicking the visor back in securely before looking over the small form in Prowl’s arms. “How ‘bout you?”

The youngling still refused to say a word or extend his field, but once Prowl translated, he nodded to Jazz stiffly.

Now in full view, Prowl could better see the wounds littering the small frame. And was he ever small, barely filling the space his lap created. His wings continued their quaking, the ache in Prowl’s spark growing at the display of distress and the obvious signs of pain.

Holding the form gently and with Jazz’s steady hands helping him, Prowl rose with the mechling still secure in his arms. High off the ground now, the youngling clung to Prowl’s plating, wrapping his short legs around his waist as far as he could.

“I have you,” Prowl reassured again, tightening his grip on the trembling frame. Flapping his wings in wide, slow oscillations, Prowl watched carefully as the youngling’s wings began to mimic his movements. “I’ll take you somewhere that will take the pain away.”

The rest of their search yielded little more than bodies to be properly buried and artwork to be preserved. After joors of never-ending disappointment, Prowl welcomed the end of the cycle.

As the make-shift medical center came into view, a new kind of dread set in. Ahead of him were other Praxians living elsewhere when the bombs were dropped, most of them with every intention of returning home. To search through the remains was a far too momentous task for them, and though Prowl could never blame them for it, their staying behind left the burden of failure on him. There were other volunteers, yes, but they were foreigners who didn’t speak their language nor understand their culture.

Prowl was relieved to see it was his brother standing on the outskirts of the tents waiting to greet them. Others may place blame on him for their failures in the search, but Smokescreen just as distant from the loss as he himself was.

As he and Jazz approached him, Smokescreen inclined his doorwings in a question he was incapable of giving voice to. Prowl only nodded in response, dipping his own wings in a show of shared sorrow.

“Hey, Smokes,” Jazz greeted, his exhaustion dragging down his try at a cheery tone. “Any of the other groups report back?”

“Yours is the last back,” Smokescreen answered, not-so-subtly looking Jazz over. “They had similar results.”

“That leaves us with ten found, right?”

“Thirteen,” Smokescreen corrected, his voice rising slightly with hope.

Prowl glanced to the side, looking over Jazz for tells. He knew with certainty Jazz was well aware of the survivor count, but he had no intentions of calling him on this. Prowl just let his pride flood his field, letting Jazz know he was grateful for the try at bringing his brother some form of joy.

“Are there any improvements in them?” he asked, turning back to his brother, who shook his helm.

“Still either in stasis lock or in surgery,” Smokescreen explained, stepping back and motioning to the center. “But the femme is still awake, and the youngling just finished with his repairs.”

Something flared in Prowl’s spark, moving him forward to head inside after Smokescreen. “His condition has improved?”

“Somewhat,” Smokescreen admitted. He indicated an opened entrance to the nearest tent. “He wakes up every so often but not long enough for a psych evaluation.”

Prowl made to pick up his pace, but a hand grasping his own grounded him. Jazz threaded their digits as he came to walk in stride beside him, his mouth forming a hard line. The message was clear, so Prowl forced his mind to slow down and match his lover’s tempo.

The entrance led into a sparsely occupied room that served as a connection to several other tents. Smokescreen continued through into one of the halls, this one lined with empty medical berths intended for more survivors. Eventually, the hall opened into a larger tent filled with several machines and medical professionals who paid them no mind.

The femme Smokescreen had cited was sitting upright on a berth in one corner in the company of a small orange mech with large, kind eyes. He was speaking gently to her, but no amount of conversation seemed to illicit a reaction. Her gaze was fixed on some feature on a wall, blank and void of any substance.

Prowl decided she was of little concern to him. There was care being administered to her that far exceeded any assistance he could hope to offer.

On the other end of the room, though, lay a familiar small frame. As Smokescreen led them to him, Jazz tightened his grip on his hand. The mechling was covered now in welds across his legs and chest. The energon splattered on him was washed away, revealing a muted grey coloration that stopped Prowl’s spark from spinning.

“He’s not dying,” Smokescreen clarified, sensing the dread that had overcome his brother. “We checked, that’s just his natural color.”

“Frag me,” Jazz muttered. “Kid looks like death.”

Prowl didn’t disagree at first. As he came closer to the small form, though, the red in his chevron and accents were bright and lively. Deep in recharge, his face was lax and peaceful as though he were completely ignorant of the tragedy he had just survived.

Gesturing to the color highlighting his frame, Prowl absently commented, “He has the same pattern as me.”

“Grey as a dead mech and an incorrect color sequence,” Smokescreen muttered. “No wonder I didn’t attend his creation ceremony.”

Prowl bristled, uncomfortable with the thought of this mechling being hidden within his home all his life. It was a fate he was only slightly dealt himself, fortunate as he was to have been created with pleasing enough colors to exist before his frame could handle the corrective paint.

“Jazz!”

Both of them turned to the source of the call, and Jazz smiled brightly as Ratchet came into view. “Mech, I forgot you came with us,” Jazz laughed. It was a forced joy if the little tells of strain and discomfort were any indication. The statement did hold a measure of truth, though, seeing as Prowl couldn’t recall many details of their flight from Iacon either.

“It’s all a bit overwhelming,” Ratchet agreed and came to stand at the end of the youngling’s berth, staring at his monitors with a practiced eye. “I’m beginning to remember why I never became an emergency responder.”

Jazz gestured towards the screens and wires connected to the small mech, readjusting their held hands to grip Prowl tighter. “He doing alright?”

“Seems to be. We’re just waiting on a few more tests.” Ratchet glanced over to Smokescreen pointedly before his gaze softened and shifted to Prowl. “How about you two?”

Smokescreen shuffled uncomfortably and avoided the doctor’s kind eyes. For all his best efforts to maintain his casual and detached façade, the more complicated emotions were taking their toll. “Fine,” he answered curtly. “I’ll get his head checked out once he decides to stay awake.” With that, he turned around to walk away, flicking his doorwings at Prowl as he fled the scene.

Before Ratchet could make assumptions, Prowl fixed him with a glare. “It should be well understood there is a significant degree of stress surrounding the survivors. Refrain from asking us of this.”

The doctor squinted his eyes at him, his mouth forming a hard line to trap the remark he had no doubt formed.

“Like you said,” Jazz interjected, shrugging at his friend. “This is overwhelming. Don’t think we need to talk much more about it.”

Ratchet nodded and made to say more but was interrupted by a motion on the berth. The youngling’s quiet features twitched, contorting his face into a look of discomfort, but he was otherwise still and deep in stasis.

Prowl stared down at him, intent to take in every small movement for signs of distress. But he was unprepared when the youngling opened his eyes, their striking blue light brightening in contrast with his grey coloration. When their gazes locked, the little details in his optics became visible, the blue and shining metal of the features as loud and expressive as he imagined Jazz’s were.

A noise emitting from the mechling brought Prowl to action. It was all too similar to the stressed clicks and whines he had made in the rubble, and Prowl decided there was no need for either of them to revisit that place, even in memory. He started with a soft caress to the mechling’s small helm, but when the child’s hands sought to grasp on to him, Prowl didn’t hesitate to oblige. Taking the smaller form in his arms, Prowl settled on the berth, so the youngling was held against his front, supported in his lap. Tiny hands pushed at him, though, forcing Prowl to loosen the hold. Once he did, the youngling relaxed on him, content in the light embrace and close proximity.

“Better?” Jazz asked him, smiling down at the both of them. Prowl caught a slight change in the light behind his visor, a sign he was glancing between them.

Once he translated, the youngling nodded at Jazz, taking to staring up at him blankly.

“That’s good!” Jazz encouraged, lowering himself to a squat so they were level. “Glad to see you up, little bit.”

The youngling nodded again with a tired frown. He lifted a shy hand, as if to point at something but reconsidering if he should.

Prowl made an educated guess and reached out to touch his lover’s face, rubbing his thumb across his cheek. “Jazz covers his eyes among strangers,” he explained.

Small features scrunched in confusion, then looked back and forth between his own hand and Jazz.

“Nah, we ain’t strangers,” Jazz said, grinning thoughtfully. “You and me are friends, aren’t we?”

He took a long moment to consider it but ultimately nodded slowly.

“Perhaps you two could stick with him during his evaluations?” Ratchet asked, jarring all three of them to attention. “That is, if he stays this responsive.”

Prowl was ready to agree, but the youngling erupted into a panicked cry before he could. Instinctively, he tightened his embrace on the mechling, but that was evidently the wrong move. He kicked and squirmed against the arms trying to console him, frantic to put distance between him and the doctor who looked and sounded nothing like him.

“Don’t hug him,” Jazz stated firmly, his cheerful demeanor dropped as he reached out to the frightened mechling.

Prowl didn’t bother to retort, focusing on ensuring the squirming mass didn’t fall to the floor or hit his wings.

“You’re good, you’re good,” Jazz sang as he climbed into the berth, blocking Ratchet and the rest of the room from view. He and the youngling locked their sights on each other, watching what the other intended to do.

Once all he could see were the two mechs who had found him, the youngling gradually went still, his harsh venting becoming more and more apparent. He made a sound somewhere between a pitiful whine and a cry. Tears formed in his optics, but he was quick to shut his eyes and will them away.

“Baby, you’re okay,” Jazz assured, deepening his voice to a low rumble.

Prowl waited for the youngling to initiate, despite the strong urge to pull him close. Patience reigned as the little weight began relaxing on him, sinking into Prowl’s warmth and steady presence.

He was still a small ball of pent up emotions, his optics sealed shut to close in on himself. Jazz shifted closer, causing the youngling to open his eyes to watch him, tears welling up again.

“It’s a lot, baby, I know,” Jazz soothed, lifting a shy hand to offer it to him. When the youngling made no sign to deny it, Jazz moved to cup his little face, wiping away a stray tear with a thumb. “Get it out of you,” he offered. “It’s okay to cry, that’s how you start to heal.”

It took Prowl a few klicks to remember he needed to translate, transfixed as he was in Jazz’s smooth tone. When he spoke, the statement’s truth called to some part of him suppressed by vorns of denial and forced detachment.

The youngling nodded, causing more tears to leak out of him. With another intense look at Jazz, he began crying in earnest, coolant streaming down his scrunched face, and his whole body trembled with silent sobbing.

Prowl stiffened to control himself, trying to will his spark into focusing on the youngling who needed him to remain calm. But he made the mistake of looking at Jazz. His lover continued to hold the youngling’s face as he kept a watchful gaze on him, smiling sadly when Prowl noticed.

“I got you, Prowler,” Jazz assured, reaching over with his unoccupied hand to grip his forearm. “It’s okay, I got you.”

Prowl shook himself as coolant escaped his own eyes. This wasn’t a sadness he had any claim over. He had no right to grieve over a place and a home he had not called his own for vorns when this child had just lost his entire world. Not sadness, no. As his own tears continued to fall and he stared down at the emotional mess in his lap looking up at him for security, it wasn’t grief or pity or dread. This was a guilt the likes of which he had never known, despite all the regrets he had in his life.

Tiny hands gripped at seams in his sides, tugging them closer. Prowl broke under the offer and cautiously wrapped his arms around the crying mechling. He bent to incase the small frame, placing his mouth atop his little forehead so their chevrons lightly touched.

The tears came of their accord. Under the safety of Jazz’s watchful gaze and in this space of grief and turmoil, Prowl let himself release. Some of the weight he bore slowly ebbed away, falling to the ground in cascades of coolant. The tension holding him left, leaving him slumped over the youngling in an equal state of desperate.

All the while, Jazz didn’t waver. He didn’t comment on Prowl’s overreaction, as warranted as he would have been. At some point, Prowl regained himself enough to look up at him. There was none of the pity or disappointment expected of someone in his position, only calm and security. Prowl shook as he laughed shortly at himself, incredulously wondering when he would realize Jazz was nothing like anyone he’d ever known.

Prowl cycled his vents deeply, willing his outburst to re-contain. The youngling in his arms gripped onto him tighter, coolant still streaming down his little face. With a newfound peace granting him a clearer mind, Prowl shuffled them so the child was better positioned and so he could bend down and let their chevrons meet again.

The light touch didn’t stop the crying, but such proximity afforded Prowl a moment to assess him. The stench of melted metal and combustion still lingered on his form, a testament to what he had already overcome. But the welds littering his frame foretold the life he was now forced to live. One of lasting change and deeply rooted injury, the extent to which would likely not be known for vorns to come.

Whatever future plans this child had were as gone now as the home he had lived in and the people who had loved him. He was a kind of lost Prowl, even with all he had experienced, could never fully imagine.

“We’re thinking the same thing,” Jazz whispered, rubbing at his forearm to get his attention.

“What would lead you to believe that?” Prowl asked, a part of him hoping Jazz was not as intuitive as normal.

“You can’t imagine leaving him, either.”

Of course Jazz wouldn’t let him deny any of what he felt. The emotional part of him Jazz had cultivated was prepared to never end this embrace, but one of them had to be rational.

Prowl glanced around to ensure they were alone in this conversation. Once he noted Ratchet had taken his leave and the rest of the room seemed to be ignoring them, he relaxed slightly. “We can’t keep him,” Prowl whispered back, trying to keep his voice level. “What do we know of handling this kind of trauma?”

“I’d learn,” Jazz argued. “And I know you would too.”

“Jazz,” he said slowly, “Where would he live? With just you or just me? Or alternate?” He shook his helm lightly so as not to jostle the crying youngling. “His life has been upended enough. We can’t offer him stability.”

“You think someone else could? Another Praxian better off than you?” Jazz shifted as he searched for the right words. “I’ll move in with you, if that helps. Anything he needs, I’d do it.”

“We are not living together until after we complete the Acts. And that is not something we should rush no matter the circumstance.” Prowl turned his gaze downward to the mechling slowly falling back into recharge as he continued to silently weep.

“Is it that you don’t know what to do or you really don’t think we could care for him?” Jazz asked, as in-tune with him as always.

“I don’t know,” Prowl muttered. Staring down at the small person clinging to him, Prowl worked his mouth around the words to describe what it was he was feeling. “I don’t want this to be…to be a product of guilt or pity on our part.”

“I get that,” Jazz agreed, his tone light and inviting. Prowl braced himself for the exceptionally persuasive argument, not wanting to be too easily swayed. “I can tell you, though, I felt nothing like this when I met you. And I was pretty sure of you.”

Prowl twitched his wings in annoyance that his lover had a point. “I don’t disagree,” he muttered.

“This ain’t a small thing, Prowler, I know that,” Jazz said, gripping his forearm a little tighter. “I don’t feel nothing small.”

If there was any part of him that could oppose, he would have. But Prowl couldn’t get the thought of the life this child had so completely lost out of his mind, nor could he help but picture the kind of future he and Jazz made plans for and how a child might fit into them. There were countless details to consider, plans to alter to suit the youngling’s potential needs. Their lives would be completely changed, but Prowl reminded himself they would never be in the same position as this youngling. They would never know this loss or confusion. How pitiful an excuse when offered the chance to aid in someone else’s recovery that he was concerning himself with his own inconveniences.

That last thought echoed in his mind, every repetition solidifying his guilt. He had no right to compare himself to this youngling. He had no place to complain or feel sorrow.

“Prowler,” Jazz called gently. “I didn’t mean to push. We don’t have to do anything you don’t think you can handle.”

Prowl huffed at that. “What I have experienced is so miniscule as to not warrant comparison.”

Jazz frowned at him and shuffled closer. “Babe, I care about this youngling, of course, but I love you way more than I know him. Don’t let me push you into this, cause if you ask me to, I _will_ choose you.”

A lovely sentiment, one Prowl didn’t doubt. But just as Jazz would be willing to live with the guilt of abandoning a child to the mercy of others for him, he was willing to swallow his doubts for Jazz.

“I don’t think I could let him go,” Prowl confessed, knowing there was some measure of truth in the statement and latching onto it. The youngling going lax as he finally fell into stasis served as an adequate excuse to look away from Jazz and his ever-knowing eyes. “And I most certainly cannot leave him in this wasteland knowing we are two people he trusts.”

Jazz smiled sadly at the admission and look down at the youngling, now in a restless recharge. He stroked the little mech’s helm, tracing the ridges until his tense features smoothed into something more relaxed. “Alright then,” Jazz whispered, his voice deep and wistful. “Rest easy, baby, we got you.”

When the mechling twitched before sinking into him, Prowl willed himself into believing the affirmation to be true. There was no doubt in his mind he would sacrifice himself for this child, but dread still lingered in his spark. Jazz was so ready to accept the altercation to their lives, especially compared to him, and this was the _right_ thing to do. So why couldn’t he muster those same feelings of intense devotion? Why couldn’t he throw all of himself into someone so deserving of it? There had to be something wrong in him.

He adjusted the youngling to keep his doorwings from rubbing against the berth or his leg. Eventually, Prowl told himself, eventually he would learn to love him. He could only pray that would come in short time.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! All my work exists in the same universe, so if you're curious about Prowl's and Jazz's relationship, I have a fic that takes place before this one centered around them. 
> 
> Stay safe! Stay kind! Stay happy!


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